Sherlock fic - What Do You See?
Title: What Do You See?
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
W/C: ~1400
Summary: How could John have missed it all this time?
A/N: written for my hc_bingo card, which can be found here: http://verucasalt123.livejournal.com/173540.html#cutid1
The first three times John had heard Sherlock make a crack about his brother’s weight, he’d blown it off. Chalked it up to some kind of throwback to their childhood. Maybe Mycroft had been a chubby kid and Sherlock didn’t want to give up making fun of him for it.
The fourth time, however, he felt compelled to say something. Not right then, at the moment Sherlock had thrown out a comment about Mycroft’s latest diet plan, but later, when they were alone.
“Could you tell me why you insist on referring to your brother as being overweight? Making comments like that is clearly hurtful to him, and I know you’re not exactly close, but why would you do that? What makes you say it?”
He was, not surprisingly, immediately on the other end of Sherlock’s ‘isn’t it obvious?’ look. “John, you don’t have to overlook it. I realize you’d never actually say it, not in front of him, but come on. He’s…well, he’s fat. It’s unbecoming and I’d have thought he would have found a way to overcome this problem years ago.”
At this point, John was honest-to-God bewildered.
It was overwhelmingly clear that Sherlock thought was he was saying was absolutely true. There was no teasing in his voice, no hesitation.
“Mycroft is not, in fact, overweight, Sherlock.”
“Of course he is, John, for God’s sake, look at him next time. Another stone and he’ll need a cart to get around instead of relying on his umbrella for support to stand.”
“Sherlock, listen to me. I am a fucking medical doctor and I am telling you that your brother’s weight is not unhealthy, not in the least.
The reply he got in return was scathing. “You don’t know the first thing about it, John. So don’t start.”
John had had plenty of time to observe the eating habits of his lover over the past year or so. During a case, he never ate, but he didn’t sleep either, so John had always assumed it was just the way he was able to function when his brain was so intensely otherwise occupied.
But later, after whatever they’d been working on had been finished, Sherlock had always caught up on his sleep and on his caloric intake.
Or had he? Thinking back, he’d seen his partner push food around on his plate, trying to disguise the fact that he hadn’t actually consumed much of his meal. He cursed himself for missing that red flag.
Honestly, despite his overwhelming physical attraction to Sherlock, John knew he was on the thin side of healthy. Maybe past that a bit. Those cheekbones and the sharp cut of his hips distracted him from it, though. He liked Sherlock’s body, loved it, reveled in the jutting angles that touched him everywhere.
“Do you think that I’m fat as well, then?” John asked, hoping to nudge Sherlock into more realistic conversational territory.
The look he got in return was incredulous. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. You’re in excellent physical condition. Why would you even ask me that?”
“I realize Mycroft is quite a bit taller than I am, but I’d be willing to bet that he doesn’t actually weigh all that much more than I do.”
Sherlock laughed, then, really laughed. “First off, I’m certain that he does, secondly, your comparison is completely illogical. You, love, are solid, well-muscled”, he got closer so he could wrap a bony hand around John’s bicep, “toned. If you weigh more than the average man of your height, it’s because of muscle mass, not because you’re flabby.” That last word was delivered with a contemptuous sneer.
John was still not finished. He reached up and moved Sherlock’s hand to his belly. “No?” he asked, a challenge behind the question. “You’ve got to admit I’m a bit soft there, darling. That doesn’t put you off?”
And then there was the sigh, the eyeroll and the crossed arms, in exactly that order.
“Are you turning this into a ‘do I look fat in this shirt’ thing like some teenage girl? Because it doesn’t suit you. At all.”
All the while they’d been talking, John was forming a theory. He decided to test it out a bit further, pulling off his shirt and exposing himself. He knew he was still in good shape, and honestly had no hang-ups about his body, not even the scar on his shoulder. But even with his toned arms and broad chest, he was well aware of the fact that he wasn’t exactly sporting six-pack abs.
Neither was Sherlock, in point of fact, because he had a flat stomach. Sometimes even a little concave, depending on how he’d been taking care of himself at any given point in time.
John moved them into the bathroom, and stood in front of the mirror, holding Sherlock’s hand over his abdomen. “What do you see? When you look right there, where you’re touching, what do you see?”
“I see you. Your chest is strong, not much hair on it, your stomach is taut, it’s easy to define the muscles there even when I’m not touching you. I see your waist, just narrower than your hips, that little spot there” he moved his hand to the left a bit “where the definition is so clear.”
His theory got a bit more clear then. Because what Sherlock was describing was just plain inaccurate. He was looking at John with his own eyes and seeing something that was not in the mirror.
“Take off your shirt.” When he saw the question starting to form on Sherlock’s lips, John cut him off. “Just do it. It’s an experiment.” Surely that would quell any resistance.
Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it to the floor, and John switched their places.
“Now, tell me what you see.”
Oh, and this was so clearly not as easy as it had been when they were talking about John.
“Just me. I’m not so toned as you are, but I can see the muscles under my skin. There’s this one spot, here” Sherlock indicated a place at his waistline by pinching it between his fingers “it’s not so great, I could stand to lose a bit of that, but I put a lot of effort into keeping it under control.”
“You do realize that what you’re pinching between your fingers there is skin, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, of course there’s skin, but it’s a bit of flab, not as smooth as I’d like it to be.” His voice was a little shaky but he was clearly working hard to hide it.
“No, Sherlock, it’s not. It’s not flab. There’s not an extra ounce of fat anywhere on your body. I can count your ribs from six feet away.”
“Now you’re exaggerating, John, why would you say that? I’m standing here looking at my chest from less than a foot away and my ribs are not at all visible.”
And that was the last piece of the puzzle right there.
The reason Sherlock barely ate. The reason he seemed vain but was really just inspecting imagined flaws all over himself. The reason he wore that fucking coat that covered him up so completely. John had seen it before in patients, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen it in a thirty five year old man.
Body dysmorphic disorder. When Sherlock looked at himself, he genuinely saw things that weren’t there. Oddly enough, it seemed to affect how he saw other people as well. He looked at Mycroft and thought he was unhealthily overweight. He looked at John and saw toned abs where there were none. He looked at himself and saw fat where there was none.
John had no idea how to explain it all, didn’t think it would do any good to try, either. The thought of his lover starving himself on purpose because of some imagined extra kilo around his middle was unbearable but how was he supposed to fix that?
He was a doctor, goddamn it, he should be able to fix it. He’d been living with a grown man who had an eating disorder all this time and he hadn’t fucking noticed. How the hell had that happened?
And how could he live with the fact that he couldn’t do anything about it?
Fuck all. He’d give it a few days and then try to talk about it again, maybe.
Maybe.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
W/C: ~1400
Summary: How could John have missed it all this time?
A/N: written for my hc_bingo card, which can be found here: http://verucasalt123.livejournal.com/173540.html#cutid1
The first three times John had heard Sherlock make a crack about his brother’s weight, he’d blown it off. Chalked it up to some kind of throwback to their childhood. Maybe Mycroft had been a chubby kid and Sherlock didn’t want to give up making fun of him for it.
The fourth time, however, he felt compelled to say something. Not right then, at the moment Sherlock had thrown out a comment about Mycroft’s latest diet plan, but later, when they were alone.
“Could you tell me why you insist on referring to your brother as being overweight? Making comments like that is clearly hurtful to him, and I know you’re not exactly close, but why would you do that? What makes you say it?”
He was, not surprisingly, immediately on the other end of Sherlock’s ‘isn’t it obvious?’ look. “John, you don’t have to overlook it. I realize you’d never actually say it, not in front of him, but come on. He’s…well, he’s fat. It’s unbecoming and I’d have thought he would have found a way to overcome this problem years ago.”
At this point, John was honest-to-God bewildered.
It was overwhelmingly clear that Sherlock thought was he was saying was absolutely true. There was no teasing in his voice, no hesitation.
“Mycroft is not, in fact, overweight, Sherlock.”
“Of course he is, John, for God’s sake, look at him next time. Another stone and he’ll need a cart to get around instead of relying on his umbrella for support to stand.”
“Sherlock, listen to me. I am a fucking medical doctor and I am telling you that your brother’s weight is not unhealthy, not in the least.
The reply he got in return was scathing. “You don’t know the first thing about it, John. So don’t start.”
John had had plenty of time to observe the eating habits of his lover over the past year or so. During a case, he never ate, but he didn’t sleep either, so John had always assumed it was just the way he was able to function when his brain was so intensely otherwise occupied.
But later, after whatever they’d been working on had been finished, Sherlock had always caught up on his sleep and on his caloric intake.
Or had he? Thinking back, he’d seen his partner push food around on his plate, trying to disguise the fact that he hadn’t actually consumed much of his meal. He cursed himself for missing that red flag.
Honestly, despite his overwhelming physical attraction to Sherlock, John knew he was on the thin side of healthy. Maybe past that a bit. Those cheekbones and the sharp cut of his hips distracted him from it, though. He liked Sherlock’s body, loved it, reveled in the jutting angles that touched him everywhere.
“Do you think that I’m fat as well, then?” John asked, hoping to nudge Sherlock into more realistic conversational territory.
The look he got in return was incredulous. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. You’re in excellent physical condition. Why would you even ask me that?”
“I realize Mycroft is quite a bit taller than I am, but I’d be willing to bet that he doesn’t actually weigh all that much more than I do.”
Sherlock laughed, then, really laughed. “First off, I’m certain that he does, secondly, your comparison is completely illogical. You, love, are solid, well-muscled”, he got closer so he could wrap a bony hand around John’s bicep, “toned. If you weigh more than the average man of your height, it’s because of muscle mass, not because you’re flabby.” That last word was delivered with a contemptuous sneer.
John was still not finished. He reached up and moved Sherlock’s hand to his belly. “No?” he asked, a challenge behind the question. “You’ve got to admit I’m a bit soft there, darling. That doesn’t put you off?”
And then there was the sigh, the eyeroll and the crossed arms, in exactly that order.
“Are you turning this into a ‘do I look fat in this shirt’ thing like some teenage girl? Because it doesn’t suit you. At all.”
All the while they’d been talking, John was forming a theory. He decided to test it out a bit further, pulling off his shirt and exposing himself. He knew he was still in good shape, and honestly had no hang-ups about his body, not even the scar on his shoulder. But even with his toned arms and broad chest, he was well aware of the fact that he wasn’t exactly sporting six-pack abs.
Neither was Sherlock, in point of fact, because he had a flat stomach. Sometimes even a little concave, depending on how he’d been taking care of himself at any given point in time.
John moved them into the bathroom, and stood in front of the mirror, holding Sherlock’s hand over his abdomen. “What do you see? When you look right there, where you’re touching, what do you see?”
“I see you. Your chest is strong, not much hair on it, your stomach is taut, it’s easy to define the muscles there even when I’m not touching you. I see your waist, just narrower than your hips, that little spot there” he moved his hand to the left a bit “where the definition is so clear.”
His theory got a bit more clear then. Because what Sherlock was describing was just plain inaccurate. He was looking at John with his own eyes and seeing something that was not in the mirror.
“Take off your shirt.” When he saw the question starting to form on Sherlock’s lips, John cut him off. “Just do it. It’s an experiment.” Surely that would quell any resistance.
Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it to the floor, and John switched their places.
“Now, tell me what you see.”
Oh, and this was so clearly not as easy as it had been when they were talking about John.
“Just me. I’m not so toned as you are, but I can see the muscles under my skin. There’s this one spot, here” Sherlock indicated a place at his waistline by pinching it between his fingers “it’s not so great, I could stand to lose a bit of that, but I put a lot of effort into keeping it under control.”
“You do realize that what you’re pinching between your fingers there is skin, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, of course there’s skin, but it’s a bit of flab, not as smooth as I’d like it to be.” His voice was a little shaky but he was clearly working hard to hide it.
“No, Sherlock, it’s not. It’s not flab. There’s not an extra ounce of fat anywhere on your body. I can count your ribs from six feet away.”
“Now you’re exaggerating, John, why would you say that? I’m standing here looking at my chest from less than a foot away and my ribs are not at all visible.”
And that was the last piece of the puzzle right there.
The reason Sherlock barely ate. The reason he seemed vain but was really just inspecting imagined flaws all over himself. The reason he wore that fucking coat that covered him up so completely. John had seen it before in patients, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen it in a thirty five year old man.
Body dysmorphic disorder. When Sherlock looked at himself, he genuinely saw things that weren’t there. Oddly enough, it seemed to affect how he saw other people as well. He looked at Mycroft and thought he was unhealthily overweight. He looked at John and saw toned abs where there were none. He looked at himself and saw fat where there was none.
John had no idea how to explain it all, didn’t think it would do any good to try, either. The thought of his lover starving himself on purpose because of some imagined extra kilo around his middle was unbearable but how was he supposed to fix that?
He was a doctor, goddamn it, he should be able to fix it. He’d been living with a grown man who had an eating disorder all this time and he hadn’t fucking noticed. How the hell had that happened?
And how could he live with the fact that he couldn’t do anything about it?
Fuck all. He’d give it a few days and then try to talk about it again, maybe.
Maybe.